


His First Friend

by SuperWhoLockedBeatlemaniac



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Funeral, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock's Funeral, Spoilers, Unilock, Victor is a good guy, but definitely a close friendship, but not many, if continued there will be romance between john and sherlock, not in order, oding, stories, there might not be a real ending, there's no real johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperWhoLockedBeatlemaniac/pseuds/SuperWhoLockedBeatlemaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John just shook his head and turned around, scanning the room looking for familiar faces and examining the faces that he didn’t know. As he turned to face the coffin again a well-groomed man with short black hair and a leather jacket sat down next to him. </p>
<p>John opened his mouth, ready to tell the stranger that the front row was reserved for those closest to Sherlock when he was suddenly pulled towards Mycroft. </p>
<p>'That is Victor Trevor,' Mycroft whispered harshly, 'he was Sherlock’s university dorm mate and his first friend.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	His First Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I was at debate when this idea hit me, what if John met Victor Trevor at Sherlock's funeral? So this happened. Right now it's ending with this chapter but I might add more either about John or Victor or the funeral, depending on response, etc. I don't own any of this. For the purpose of timing, Sherlock was born in January of 1977, Victor in April of 1976, and John in July of 1972. TW: drug abuse (not detailed) and ODing.

**June 2012**

John looked at the closed coffin with a sigh as he touched the top. He scanned the room and noticed the alarming amount of people who had showed up to mourn Sherlock, he knew that Sherlock had changed the course of many people’s lives but most of them seemed to think he was a git who was unworthy of life. John recognised some of the attendees from cases he had helped Sherlock solve, but the majority of them were foreign faces.

As John took his seat, in the front next to Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade, he looked around for the elusive parents of Sherlock Holmes. As each elder person walked to the back after touching the coffin John started to wonder if they were long gone and dead.

“Where are your parents?” he asked as he leaned into Mycroft, trying his best to not cry as he spoke.

“Line-dancing, in Oklahoma, I believe,” Mycroft said with a small smile.

“They won’t be here for their own son’s funeral?” John asked his face full of surprise.

“No, not everyone is as _sentimental_ as you are,” Mycroft snarled.

John just shook his head and turned around, scanning the room looking for familiar faces and examining the faces that he didn’t know. As he turned to face the coffin again a well-groomed man with short black hair and a leather jacket sat down next to him.

John opened his mouth, ready to tell the stranger that the front row was reserved for those closest to Sherlock when he was suddenly pulled towards Mycroft.

“That is Victor Trevor,” Mycroft whispered harshly, “he was Sherlock’s university dorm mate and his first friend.”

“His. First. Friend.” John repeated, staring at Mycroft as he remembered Sherlock’s speech in Dartmoor.

“Yes, and quite possibly much more,” Mycroft said with a small, sad smile, “but Sherlock never trusted me enough to tell me about his _friends_ and I didn’t have enough authority, at the time, to spy on him.”

“They were,” John said loudly, before realising where he was and lowering his voice, “You mean to tell me, Mycroft, that Victor Trevor was not only Sherlock’s **only** lover but was also the one there when he was… when he was taking drugs.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at John’s dramatics and turned to face forward once again. John slumped in his seat and stole a glance at Victor Trevor. He was very attractive, one of those ruggedly handsome men who didn’t ever need to try, and John understood what Sherlock saw in him but he couldn’t fathom why Sherlock had never told him about Victor.

“Hi”.

Even as John heard the voice from beside him he couldn’t believe that that was Victor Trevor’s voice, he had expected a deep, rough voice but was greeted with a soft, gentle voice with a calming undertone.

“Hello,” John said as he fixed his posture, using his military background to show Trevor who was truly the toughest.

“I’m Victor,” he said softly as he leaned back, “I was Sherlock’s friend in university.”

“Hello, Victor,” John said as he tried to hold back his anger towards Sherlock and his unknown university friend.

“You’re John Watson, right?” Victor said smiling as he spoke.

“Yes,” John said as his eyebrows furrowed and he looked back to the coffin.

“Oh, he didn’t tell me,” Victor said with a small laugh, “We hadn’t spoken or seen each other in years.”

“So that’s what happens to you after you’re Sherlock Holmes’s friend,” John said.

Victor was about to answer as the priest, Mycroft’s idea, walked to the front of the hall and began the service. John opened and closed his left fist throughout the service, leaving his right one clenched. Every few minutes John looked over to Victor and eventually saw tears running down his face. John lifted his hand to feel his face, it was dry, and he wondered why someone who hadn’t seen Sherlock for years was crying and he wasn’t at all. He had loved Sherlock, and was his best friend, and yet all he could feel was anger at the man for leaving him.

John couldn’t bear to look at Victor any longer, and he had long ago given up on watching the priest saying things about Sherlock that no one would ever say, so he looked towards Mycroft.

Mycroft had his head down as was staring at his hands; he looked more stressed than John had ever seen him. Next to him, Lestrade was staring at the priest with a blank, pale face and his leg was moving up and down, something he always did when he was stressed, nervous, or sad as John had noticed throughout the years and many cases.

Mrs Hudson was crying into Lestrade’s shoulder and looking up every few minutes to stare at the closed casket that held the closest thing she had ever had to a son. Molly, on the other hand, had a wet face but a blank look as she stared at the casket and every few seconds she gulped, presumably holding back tears.

John looked back down at his feet as the priest continued to spew lies about his best friend.

* * *

 

“Now if anyone would like to share personal memories of Sherlock we will be passing a microphone around,” the priest said.

“You should speak,” Mycroft whispered to John, “Even though he pretended to hate the blogs, he loved when you wrote them about him and his cases.”

“I really don’t think I can,” John said with a small laugh, “I’ll probably end up screaming at him, or something.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Mycroft asked as he looked towards the back of the hall, “Perhaps he deserves it.”

John just shook his head with a small sigh as he turned to listen to the woman speaking, Sherlock found her cat back in 1999, a time (at least by John’s calculation) when Sherlock was very wild and very high.

When she was done the priest took the microphone from her and held it up, looking for those with their hands up. Rather than be pressured to raise his hand John looked at his shoes, trying to deduce his own actions through the dirt on his sole. He looked up as he felt Victor rise, and saw the young man take the microphone and turn around to view the congregation.

“I met Sherlock during my first year of university,” Victor started, “My dog ran away from me and bit his ankle. He was a year younger than me, but somehow two years ahead of me. He was also very… pissed off…”

The whole church shook with laughter, as anyone who knew Sherlock Holmes, even for the shortest amount of time, knew that he was pissed off very easily and for most of his life.

John sighed internally, even Victor’s story of meeting Sherlock was better than his. What would he say if he was up there: ‘Yeah, I was broke and couldn’t figure out how to stay in London so my old mate, Mike, introduced me to Sherlock’?

“So I took this seventeen year old kid back to my dorm, I was almost yelling sorrow at him but he just looked like he wanted to leave,” Victor said as he mimicked carrying Sherlock and tugging a dog on a leash. “When I set him down on my bed I say ‘this isn’t how I usually get people in my bed’ and he looks at me with those pale, knowing eyes and spews out my whole life story based solely on my barely furnished flat and my clothes. I was amazed, and I immediately wanted to be his friend but I didn’t let him know that. I acted deterred and let him go.”

John sank in his seat as he remembered the first time Sherlock deduced him, he assumed Mike had told Sherlock about him and was alarmed. When Sherlock had explained his deductions and John had called them amazing Sherlock had told him that he was usually told to piss off, John wondered if Trevor was first person to hurt Sherlock by saying that.

“From then on, all I was concerned with was finding this brilliant boy and make him my friend,” Victor said as he gazed into space fondly remembering his first encounters with the young genius.

* * *

 

**September 1994**

“Just talk to me!” Victor commanded as he followed the younger boy down the corridor.

Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes as he continued walking back to his dorm. He couldn’t believe that the boy who owned the dog that bit him refused to leave him alone and had followed him daily for the past two weeks.

“I won’t stop, you know,” Victor called from behind him, “I’ll follow every day until you talk to me.”

* * *

 

“You told me to piss off,” Sherlock said a week later as he snapped around to look at Victor Trevor.

“I was scared; you knew so much about me without knowing anything,” Victor rambled, “if that makes any sense.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, Victor was so annoyingly normal.

“Sherlock,” Victor said with a sigh, “I’ve seen your dorm and it’s fairly shabby for a third year and my parents are paying for my flat and well, I was wondering if you might like to move in? To be my flat mate?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I suppose.”

* * *

 

Sherlock and Victor continued to live separate lives until Victor kissed Sherlock before he left for class in the spring.

“I’m, oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he said as he buried his face in his hands.

“I saw it coming,” Sherlock drawled.

“Of course…”

“I would’ve stopped you, if I wanted to,” Sherlock said with a small smile.

That’s when their relationship began.

* * *

 

**June 2012**

“Sherlock and I were really close for a few months,” Victor stated, “and then after summer holiday we went back to the flat but Sherlock was weirder, in a way, and eventually I realised that he was on drugs.”

John nodded as he remembered all of Sherlock’s danger nights, even after many relapses and stints in rehab; he would do anything when desperate for a high. John had only seen Sherlock with drugs once, it was cocaine right after their first encounter with Moriarty, Sherlock had told John that he was using it to think more clearly.

* * *

 

**March 2011**

“Sherlock!” John shouted as soon as he walked into the sitting room and saw the cocaine that was laid out on the table in front of the couch.

“I need to think, John,” Sherlock drawled as he laid back and closed his eyes.

“Really?” John asked as he examined the powder, “The three patches wouldn’t do it this time?”

“There’s too much in my head,” Sherlock moaned as he sat up and ruffled his head in anger.

“You… You haven’t taken them yet,” John said as he saw Sherlock’s behaviour, much too calm for someone on cocaine.

“I wasn’t going to,” Sherlock muttered as his tone going softer and his eyes closing.

“Then why, Sherlock?” John asked as he motioned to the cocaine.

“I needed the option.”

John shook his head as he put the cocaine back in the baggie and took it to the bathroom to flush down the toilet.

“Do you realise how much that cost?”

“Maybe you’ll think about that next time.”

Sherlock smiled as he watched John stomp up the stairs to his room.

* * *

 

**September 1995**

“I can’t believe you!” Victor said as he laughed nervously and slumped on the only bed in the flat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he reached for his coat and prepared to go out.

“You’re a drug addict,” Victor accused as he sat up and stared at the young man.

“I’m a genius,” Sherlock countered as he looked at Victor, his eyes daring him to speak again.

“You know what, Sherlock, for someone who calls himself a genius you’re incredibly stupid,” Victor shouted as he stood up and used his height against Sherlock. “You’re barely eighteen, have somehow managed to make it to your chemistry research year at Oxford and you’re risking it all for a high!”

“It’s not for the high, Victor!” Sherlock yelled as he raised his hand to strike Victor’s face, “I thought that you of all people would understand that!”

With that, Sherlock stormed out of the flat and slammed the door in Victor’s face.

* * *

 

**June 2012**

“I convinced Sherlock to quit and for a few months he was satisfied with being an exceptional student and my boyfriend, he even solved his first official crime that year. But once we were separated for Christmas break he went right back to the drugs. It was just boredom, he assured me when we were back at school, and he wouldn’t do it again.” Victor recalled with a small, mournful smile. “As fools in love often do, I believed him and life went normal once again. Until the day I walked into the flat and found him shooting up, on our bed.

* * *

 

**April 1996**

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Oh, shit, Victor, I didn’t think that you’d be home yet,” Sherlock said looking up from the vein he was inserting the needle into.

Victor slammed his fist into the desk in the bedroom, shattering some of his fingers. He grabbed Sherlock off of the bed and threw him to the floor and took the syringe from his hand.

“I seriously can’t believe you, Sherlock!” Victor screamed, “You promised! I gave you a fucking second chance and you blew it. I should’ve realised that you didn’t care about me, about us. All you fucking cared about was the high.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but Victor cut him off before he started speaking.

“Don’t bullshit me with the same old ‘I wasn’t doing it for the high’ crap,” Victor shouted, “You told me that I helped the boredom and you were solving cases but obviously nothing is good enough for you, Sherlock Holmes!”

Victor turned around and marched out the door, slamming it in Sherlock’s face as he tried to follow him.

* * *

 

**June 2012**

Victor put a hand to his mouth, trying to stop the tears from coming as he thought of what had happened next.

“That night was the first time that Sherlock Holmes almost died,” Victor said, his voice going quieter than it naturally was, “and it was all because I broke up with him.”

John thought that Victor must really love Sherlock, to blame himself for Sherlock’s foolish actions. But then again, when John and Sherlock were both almost killed at the pool John immediately blamed himself and his kidnapping for their close call. However, the most surprising part was the fact that Sherlock fought with John until he admitted that it was Sherlock’s fault, not his own.

* * *

 

**March 2011**

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John cried as he looked up at the amazing man as he paced in front of their chairs.

“For what?” Sherlock asked as he shook his head, dismissing another unreasonable theory.

“For almost getting us killed,” John sighed as he tried to stop the usual remorseful tears from coming, “I’m a soldier, I was a soldier I mean, I should’ve been able to escape and even if I couldn’t I should’ve never risked your life.”

“I risk my own life,” Sherlock said as he rolled his eyes at John’s stupidity, “and yours, every day. Don’t apologise for something that you had no control over and that was much more of my fault. I put you in danger not the other way around.”

“I,” John leaned his head back in anger, “I guess that’s true.” He agreed, not in the mood to argue with Sherlock that day.

Sherlock smiled, happy that John had finally seen his logic, and continued to pace in front of the chairs thinking about nothing but Moriarty.

* * *

 

**April 1996**

Sherlock sneered at the door, as he filled a new syringe and stabbed it into his vein, emptying it. He continued to inject the cocaine until he could feel no more. As he got up to find Victor, and express that he didn’t care, and had never cared, he felt himself falling to the ground.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry,” Victor said as he walked back into the room. When he saw Sherlock sprawled on the floor he screamed and pulled Sherlock towards him. “Sherlock,” he muttered into the boy’s ear, “Please Sherlock, please wake up,” he cried.

‘Call 999, idiot,’ he heard in his head, the voice the same as Sherlock’s degrading but loving one.

“I’ll be right back,” he unnecessarily said to the limp boy as he ran from the room to the phone in the kitchen.

The ambulance would be quick, the unknown woman’s voice assured him from the other end of the line, and he was to keep Sherlock sat up, and to check that his pulse was there and that he was breathing. Victor put his hand in front of Sherlock’s face to check for breath, he felt the shallow exhale from Sherlock’s mouth and moved his hand to Sherlock’s neck and felt the faint, irregular pulse. He took Sherlock and sat him in his lap and shoved his head into Sherlock’s back, smelling the familiar scent of Sherlock’s shampoo and body wash.

“Don’t you dare die, you idiot,” he muttered as he squeezed Sherlock tighter and cried into him.

It only took the paramedics eight minutes to arrive, but it felt like hours to Victor as Sherlock’s life hung in the balance. The emergency responders grabbed Sherlock from Victor’s arm, rushing him to the ambulance. When Victor tried to follow them they closed the doors in his face, telling him that only family was allowed in the ambulance.

Victor was called by Sherlock’s mother two days later. Sherlock was finally stabilised and awake and he was requesting to speak to Victor. She told Victor that she wasn’t aware of his involvement in Sherlock’s… problem, and that she wasn’t interested in learning but that she hoped he could come to see Sherlock one last time before he was sent to rehab, the family wouldn’t be letting this happen again.

Victor took the tube to the hospital and walked to the room that Mrs Holmes had told him Sherlock was in. Sherlock was sitting up in the bed and had his fingers steepled under his chin. Victor walked into the room, but waited for Sherlock to acknowledge him before speaking.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said without looking at Victor.

“Don’t thank me,” Victor sighed as he looked at his shoes, “it was my fault.”

Sherlock smiled as he shook his head, “No, it wasn’t Victor; it was never your fault.”

“You’re barely nineteen and you have to go to rehab,” Victor said, “and it was all because I didn’t pay enough attention to you, and I couldn’t give you enough to keep you from being bored.”

“No,” Sherlock said, “do not blame yourself for this. I won’t be back at Oxford after rehab, my lovely” he rolled his eyes, “brother would never let that happen, so I want you to move on. Find someone who deserves you, Victor, someone who isn’t so selfish and dumb.”

Victor had never heard Sherlock call himself dumb, and he didn’t want to do what Sherlock told him to do. “I won’t just leave you like this,” he whispered as he moved closer to the bed.

“I believe you will,” came a voice from behind, Sherlock rolled his eyes as soon as the owner of the voice had entered the room. Turning around, Victor saw the face of Sherlock’s illustrious brother, Mycroft.  

Sherlock grabbed Victor’s sleeve and pulled him closer, “Listen,” he whispered, “don’t argue just leave. Mycroft is going to blame you for this,” he glanced down at his form, “no matter how much you fight. It will be beneficial for both of us if our correspondence ended now.”

Victor bit his lip and nodded. Sherlock had more than proven that he was no longer interested in a relationship or friendship with Victor, first with the continued drug use and second with his emotionless speech about their end. He turned to the door and began to walk out, pausing to look at Sherlock and say “goodbye” before leaving and never looking back.

* * *

 

**June 2012**

“I still blame myself for Sherlock’s drug use,” Victor said as he lowered himself to his seat, “especially after I learnt that my leaving was not the end of his drug use.”

John knew that nineteen was too young for it to be over; Sherlock was twenty-six when he met Lestrade and had yet to quit drugs. The only times he was allowed to work a case was when he came in sober. It obviously worked better than any rehab, possibly because of Lestrade’s help and kinship that hadn’t been offered to Sherlock before, or at least not since Victor.

“That’s it,” Victor said as he handed the microphone back to the priest. The priest nodded as he again offered it to the crowd, saying there was time for one last Sherlock story. Mycroft nudged John, urging him to tell a story that involved a sober Sherlock, the genius the way he had died. John stood up and gestured to the microphone, silently asking the priest for the microphone.

“I, um, I didn’t know Sherlock Holmes very long and the longer I knew him the less I was sure I knew about him, or uh rather about his past. But that never mattered, for Sherlock and me, and he was honestly the best, the greatest man I had ever met,” John sighed, “I know that, um, that some of you hated him when he was alive or, uh, didn’t appreciate him when he was here and I’m okay with that because he could be a huge dick. But he did so much for me and so much for everyone and never asked for anything in return. For someone as selfish as Sherlock Holmes it’s remarkable that he was often so selfless in his cases. Of course he loved the puzzle, the game and the chase but that was never the end of it for him, no matter how much of a complete arse he was he always tried to make it right, and to help.”

John handed the microphone back to the priest and sat down taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.

The priest said his closing remarks and called up the pallbearers to bring Sherlock to his grave. John looked up as six unfamiliar men lifted the coffin and began carrying it to the back.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he whispered to Mycroft as they rose.

“You can, John,” Mycroft corrected, “and you will, for him, for Sherlock.”

John gulped and clenched his fist once again and with a nod he stood straight up and turned to leave the pew, preparing to say goodbye to his best friend for the final time.

* * *

 

**July 2012**

“This is the first birthday that he’ll spend without me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he sat down at his brother’s desk.

“I will continue to watch him, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, the lack of concern evident in his voice.

“What he said about me, at the funeral, do you think he meant that?”

“Very sentimental, for you, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded.

Sherlock shook his head, “He wouldn’t lie, would he?”

“No,” Mycroft said with a small smile at his idiotic brother, “you also listened to what he said at your grave. John is a sentimental man, and he cared about you immensely. Despite your failings you were the only person who hadn’t disappointed him and let him down.”

“Until I jumped,” Sherlock added.

Mycroft shrugged as he flicked his hand to show Sherlock the door, he had more important things to do than to worry about Sherlock's petty relationships.


End file.
